


Like a Ghost at Break of Day

by OrdinaryRealities



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Background Newt/Anathema, Background the Them, Crowley and Aziraphale are doing their best, Found Family, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Warlock, The Dowlings Are Terrible Parents, Warlock has abandonment issues, Working through trauma together, adoption fic, non-binary Warlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25273417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrdinaryRealities/pseuds/OrdinaryRealities
Summary: In which Aziraphale and Crowley offer to adopt Warlock. Warlock takes them up on it.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Warlock Dowling & Pepper (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 265
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	Like a Ghost at Break of Day

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the art linked at the end of this fic from the awesome [Jules-al-c](https://jules-al-c.tumblr.com/)
> 
> As always, if I've said anything racist/sexist/ableist/etc., it was out of ignorance, not malice. Let me know so that I can do better next time, and I should have all my pronouns right, but if I've referred to Warlock as anything but 'they', it was a mistake and please let me know.
> 
> Thank you to my many betas, including FlightyRainbow, rhagfyre, elf_on_the_shelf, vgersix, and d20OwlBear. They were all very helpful, and any mistakes left over are mine alone. 
> 
> Title is from "Waring" by Robert Browning.

Warlock slouched lower in their seat and scowled. The heat lay across them like a large pet, pinning them to the chair. The sun was worse. It glared at Warlock like they’d done something wrong (which they must have done, to be sent here). It was too hot. Hellish. And when Warlock told their mother that they missed the UK she’d just shrugged. When they told their father he told them he was waiting for a conference call. 

When Warlock, in desperation, had finally asked about (even) a tutor, their father had been within earshot. “A tutor? No son of mine is going to go around asking for schoolwork in the summer! You can wait and go to school. Make some friends. Play some football, toughen up a little. Break a few hearts.”

Warlock straightened in response to the cringe they wanted to make, the one they could feel pinching the back of their neck and swallowed the retort bursting to escape. “Sounds fun.” 

Nanny’d had a way of communicating her displeasure, something about her eyes and her tone and her chin that Warlock had spent years trying to mimic. 

Their father had dropped the conversation and left the room, but it was impossible to say if Warlock had been successful or if their father had just exhausted his parenting interest for the day (week, month). 

Warlock had retreated to the balcony where they now sat, staring at the cramped backyard in the oppressive DC heat. It was fast becoming their only refuge, such as it was. Their parents treated the balcony in much the same way they treated their child.

Their father ignored its existence except to threaten it with a good time. (“It looks like a nice place to kick back with a couple of cold ones,” he’d announced on arrival, in much the same way that he announced how much fun bonding activities with Warlock would be, if those activities had ever manifested themselves in his schedule.) 

Their mother had invited friends around the afternoon after they moved in. They sat on the balcony and drank sweet cold tea and admired the view. (Warlock pulled a face again at the remembered taste of that tea.) The balcony had been subjected to her benevolent neglect ever since. 

Warlock had adopted it immediately in imagined solidarity and proceeded to use it to eavesdrop and daydream. What would they be doing if they weren’t here.

There was a noise at the door, followed by a sharp voice that was almost out of patience. “You will let us in. You will forget that we were ever here.” The door swung open (every night when their father came home, he announced that someone should oil those hinges) and then shut.

Warlock sat up at the familiar accent, the heat momentarily forgotten. 

“You will wake up, having had a lovely dream about whatever you like best.” This voice was comforting, the sort of voice soft enough to smooth over all of Warlock’s rough edges and rumpled fur.

The first voice spoke again, wry. “Oh, get on with it, angel.”

Warlock was standing when they walked out onto the balcony, telling themself that the familiarity was just...

“You’re from Englan-” 

It wasn’t. 

“Nanny? Brother Francis?” They probably should have been more surprised, but all they felt was an engulfing relief. 

Nanny and Brother Francis exchanged a look. 

“How on earth did you recognize us, Warlock?” Brother Francis’s lower lip pouted ever so slightly.

“He is an immensely clever boy.” Nanny’s pride was a balm to pieces of Warlock’s ego that they hadn’t even known were smarting.

“What are you doing here?” Warlock gripped the back of the chair they’d been sitting in, hot metal and plastic burning their fingers. They swallowed a plea for their old babysitters not to leave them behind. What were they going to do, kidnap Warlock? Warlock sneered at themself. The Dowlings had contacts in the secret service, probably. They had _friends_ in the secret service. Was it called the secret service, for Americans? 

“Warlock, darling,” Warlock set their jaw against the gentleness of Nanny’s voice. Nanny only spoke this way when Warlock was about to disappoint her. “We thought we’d offer you a choice.”

This was new, and a convenient distraction from the memories running through their head of the way that people stared every time they slipped and used a Briticism. Warlock glanced up from under their hair.

“See, we had to go off in a hurry, because- Well, the details aren’t really important- The fact of the matter is, Aziraphale and I were talking about moving in together at the bookshop, and I’d bring my plants, and maybe we’d move out into the country a ways- but well…”

“Well,” Brother Francis broke in, “Crowley thought that you might not be- I mean, they are rather unpleasant people sometimes, aren’t they? Your parents. I know you’ve had-”

Warlock interrupted before they could jump to any wrong conclusions. “So what’s my choice?” If they were wrong they were going to be crushed, but waiting to hear would be worse.

“Well, Warlock, we – that is to say, Crowley and I – we were wondering if you would like to move in with us.” 

Warlock spoke nearly on top of Brother Francis’s last word, afraid one of their adults might change their minds. “Yes!” Warlock gripped tighter, the bite of the cheap plastic edges and the sun-heated metal on the palm of their hand the only things that promised this wasn’t a dream. “Yes, please!”

“Think this through first, Warlock.” Nanny always spoke as if she were persuading someone of something. “At least listen to the whole bargain. If we take you, we’ll have to change your parents’ memories. They’ll never have had a child. You won’t be able to come back.”

Warlock shrugged, feeling mulish. “So about like normal? They won’t even notice.”

Brother Francis – Aziraphale? – was looking at his companion oddly. “Is this how you tempt people, Crowley?”

Nanny flinched. “This is Warlock.”

Warlock swallowed. “What do I have to do?” In the fairytales, bargains had to be sealed in some way. Giving away the princess’s hair or voice or handing over a person’s name like a weapon. There was a trade to be made, always. (They couldn’t remember once that they’d been an exception for their parents.) If they lost the momentum, who was to say that these two wouldn’t disappear out of Warlock’s life again, leaving only a drab existence in which Warlock never quite fit. Surely they had something that would be enough of a sacrifice to allow this offer to come true.

Nanny looked a little sad. “Nothing, just come with me.” She held out her hand and Warlock took it, and they walked through the penthouse apartment that stood eerily still. 

Brother Francis stopped at the apartment door, frowned a little, drew his hand down, snapped his fingers, and nodded. “There we are. All of your things will meet us at the bookshop, Warlock.”

Warlock tightened their grip on Nanny’s hand and stared straight ahead as they walked into the elevator. (Don’t look back.) The lobby too, was deserted. Warlock kept their back straight. Didn’t look back. Didn’t ask questions. If this was all a cruel joke, they didn’t ever want to find out. If it wasn’t, they weren’t going to be Orpheus. (At least Orpheus had been told not to look back.) 

It wasn’t until they were seated on the plane, the three of them in a row in the center, that Warlock let down their guard enough to ask a question. “You called each other… What should I call you? If we’re… living together?” 

They didn’t dare call it family and be wrong.

Nanny began by snapping her fingers up into the air. The person who had been rummaging in a bag in front of Warlock froze. Someone else paused walking down the aisle with one foot in the air. Warlock squared their shoulders. 

“I’m Crowley. That’s Aziraphale. You can call us that, or Nanny and Brother Francis. Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

Warlock swallowed some shapeless hurt that surfaced at that. “Whatever.”

They could feel the look being exchanged over their head. “I am the Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate. He is the demon Crowley, the serpent of Eden. Names are-”

“Any name I’ve given you is a name I’ve chosen for myself, Warlock.” 

Warlock squared their shoulders against the comfort of that familiar voice. “OK.”

“We’ll probably be calling each other Crowley and Aziraphale. 6000 years of habit is hard to break.”

Warlock’s brain finally caught up to their ears. “Angel? Dem- So when Nann- Crowley calls you Angel-” they craned around to look up at Aziraphale, “Sh- He actually means it?” A pause. “What about gender?” Warlock swallowed and prayed, though they refused to believe in god. An angel and a demon. Maybe they had to start. 

“Angels are sexless.” Aziraphale’s voice was different from Brother Francis’s – higher-pitched and prim. It was probably just as well that he’d changed it. 

“Warlock asked about gender, Angel.” 

“I- it’s a male body?”

Warlock huffed. “Whatever.”

Crowley touched the top of Warlock’s head. “I like to play around. I’ve been female and I’ve been male. It depends more on what I’m wearing, but I stick with male pronouns. ‘S easier.”

Warlock nodded and felt the knot in their stomach ease a touch. 

Aziraphale took a hesitant breath. “I- I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. It’s not… It’s never been an issue.”

That was going to have to be answer enough, Warlock supposed, and nodded. “M’Kay.” 

“What about you then, young Warlock?” Nanny’s voice was smooth, so comforting that Warlock almost lost the import of the actual words. “Any secret identities we should know about? Genders?” 

Warlock froze, feeling numb. “Is that why you came back? You still think I’m going to rule the world one day and you wanted to get in on- NO.” They had already decided that they were never telling anyone about their gender. Distantly, the realized that they were standing. “No, I’m not- You might as well leave me here if all I’m going to do is disappoint you.” They shivered and Nanny reached and wrapped a hand around Warlock’s wrist. 

“I’m sorry, Warlock, that was a poor choice of words on my part.” His voice was warm. “We did realize that you’re a normal boy. We aren’t expecting you to take over the Heavens and the Earth. I never knew it bothered you.”

Warlock sat back down, still feeling shivery. “I didn’t know it bothered me that much,” they admitted, voice soft. 

“I’m sorry, Warlock.”

Warlock shrugged. “Whatever. Is someone else going to crush humanity under their heel?” They hoped it sounded like only an academic interest. 

“No. No, we’re safe.” It was Aziraphale speaking now. We, like it would hurt them too.

Warlock took a slow breath and nodded. “Ok. I didn’t mean to yell. Sorry.”

“My dear boy…”

“Now, listen here Warlock,” Nanny’s voice was mock stern. “Don’t apologize for our mistakes. Are you the one who made an eleven-year-old think that he was in charge of the apocalypse? No?”

Warlock pulled one side of their mouth into a smile. “Alright Nanny.” A pause while they blinked back unexpected tears. “Thank you. For… for coming for me.” Their voice went a little tight at the end, but Na- Crowley hugged them and hid their eyes for a minute while they got their face back under control. 

Living in the bookshop was weird. 

Neither one of them slept. Crowley only half- seemed to live there. Aziraphale glared away the few customers who dared to actually come in. None of the books looked enticing, or even useful. Only the ones Br- Aziraphale read looked like they had been touched since they had arrived. And although Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t hug or kiss or anything, Warlock always had the feeling that they were interrupting when they walked into a room. It shouldn’t have been that different – Nanny and Brother Francis had always been incomprehensible except to each other and had worked together (or against one another?) seamlessly – but it somehow was all the same. They’d made Aziraphale jump, once, when they wandered out into the bookshop proper one morning. 

Warlock spent a lot of time in their room, playing video games. 

Warlock had been there nearly a week when Aziraphale dabbed his mouth with his napkin after breakfast, laid it next to his plate, and inquired, “Do you need anything for the ride? We’re going to look at cottages today, and then to meet some friends for dinner.”

Warlock shrugged. They’d smuggled a book up to their room the night before, but they weren’t sure enough that they were allowed to read books from the shop to bring it with them. (If they asked they might have to return it unread.) “I’m fine.”

“I’ll just pack a few biscuits in case Crowl- any of us gets peckish,” Aziraphale decided and bustled into the kitchen. 

Warlock tapped their fingers against the table idly. If they were in the US they’d be starting school this week. They wondered if their parents had even noticed a difference in their lives. Sure, Aziraphale and Crowley had changed things so they didn’t remember they had a child (‘changed’) but were things different? Maybe their mother was happier. They’d always thought that she would be happier without kids. Maybe- Warlock shook their head. If they were in the States they would be in a strange country with no one they knew but a pair of disinterested strangers, about to start a new school where everything from their name to their accent would mark them as _wrong_. It wasn’t that they missed that.

It wasn’t. It was just that Aziraphale and Crowley were a lot stranger here than they ever used to be. Off the clock, Warlock supposed. It wasn’t that they weren’t attentive. They allowed Warlock to sulk but they always smiled and listened when Warlock talked. They always responded. And true to Crowley’s word, neither of them had said one weird thing about the Book of Revelations and Warlock calling the four horsemen of the apocalypse or anything like that. 

Warlock traced the scallops on the edge of the table. 

Crowley lounged in and draped himself onto a chair across from Warlock. “Warlock, I’ve been meaning to ask, do you want to be called Warlock?” 

They blinked at him. 

“What else would you call me?”

Crowley flopped a hand expressively. “Whatever. Anything you wish to be called.” He fixed his gaze on Warlock. “Aziraphale had a nice young man he was friendly with a few decades ago. Aziraphale,” he raised his voice, “What was the name of that fellow you liked, oh, you know!”

Aziraphale called back from the other room. “You’ll have to be more specific, my dear. Are you referring to Oscar? George? James Barry?”

“JAMES BARRY WAS MORE THAN ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO!” Crowley tsked and shook his head. “No, you know the one! Splendid young chap, I tempted his brother to do an interview with The Voice after he came out.”

Warlock was still getting used to these conversations. “I- Oscar. Is he talking about Oscar Wilde?”

Crowley nodded at him, distracted. “Nice chap by all accounts. Good sense of humor. You know the one I’m talking about, Aziraphale, he- oh never mind. Warlock, love, any name you wanted. William or Terrance or Carl or Seamus. I’m asking- Oh, hang it all,”

“Were you talking about Justinus?” Aziraphale stuck his head into view in the doorway.

“Yes!” Crowley smacked a palm down on the table in emphasis. “That’s the bugger. Justin. Is he still alive?”

Warlock tuned them out and considered the question. They knew a lot of nonbinary people changed their names. Warlock had considered themself lucky, that their name was odd enough that it didn’t immediately suggest a gender to people. Technically though, according to Google, a Warlock was male. They’d checked. 

They ran a finger along the edge of the table again. The dictionary definition of their name was “a male witch” and they’d always enjoyed that upending of gender norms. It felt illicit.

They turned back to Crowley and Aziraphale to answer the question. Their conversation had clearly moved on. Aziraphale looked mildly surprised. 

“You never said.”

Crowley shrugged. “He was a nice lad, Alan. Wicked sense of humor, bright, kind. It was thanks to my association with him that I knew where to find you in the church that night.”

Warlock zoned out again. In a week or so Crowley would remember he’d asked the question, and maybe Warlock would have come up with a response by then that had been more carefully thought over than the automatic clutching of their name that they were doing now. 

The cottage hunting was weird. Warlock had trailed after their agent through three different houses by early afternoon, nodded and tried to look like they were listening (Aziraphale and Crowley certainly didn’t bother) as she explained how up-to-date this kitchen or that bathroom was. How cozy this fireplace would be, or the size and grandness of the master bedroom.

Aziraphale looked around doubtfully as she tried to lead them back out of the first bedroom. “I suppose that we could put in some bookshelves. Maybe a couple of armchairs. Oh, what about-”

“Angel.” Crowley seemed equally disinterested in following the agent. “You are not taking away my bed.”

It wasn’t really a surprise that Aziraphale didn’t care about the gardens, not after having watched him perform miracles. (Doubtless those miracles were the only reason Brother Francis had any success at all as the gardener. Warlock had learned early that the Dowlings’ gardener was a bit… unorthodox.) 

What was surprising was Crowley’s interest. He’d roamed all three gardens intently, eyes peeled for weeds, sickly plants, and places that needed adjustments. (He’d petted the leaves of an old knobbly lilac bush and told it, “You’ll do much better against the house, won’t you? I _know_ you will.” Warlock felt a little menaced by association.)

Warlock was left with a series of impressions. The cramped entryway of the first cottage and the vision of Crowley stooping to avoid hitting his head on the roof of the second bedroom (one that Warlock actually quite liked in spite of that, or maybe because of it, one that felt quiet and self-contained enough to feel safe). The cramped second bedroom in the second house, a depressing square affair with one small window that looked out at the wall of the garden shed. The lofty two-story living room of that same place, one with a window taking up the entire south-facing wall, and the way that the sun had come out and Crowley had tilted his face up to it and basked in the light and the fond look on Aziraphale’s face as he watched. The delight on Aziraphale’s face at the bookshelves on every outer wall of the third place and the scrutiny that Crowley had applied to the well-lit pantry in the third place. 

More than anything though, what struck them was the way that Aziraphale and Crowley interacted with each other throughout the morning. The comfortable way that they had gone back and forth about Crowley’s driving while Warlock clung grimly to the grabstrap and fixed a smile to their face in case Crowley happened to glance in the mirror. The series of things in the houses that they called one another’s attention to with one word and a smile. “Paris?” with a hooked smile at a single pair of heeled boots left in the wardrobe. “Crowley!” and a nod at a small potted ivy in the window. Aziraphale had offered Crowley a grape off of a vine and Crowley had accepted it, nonsensically, with a muttered, “I still prefer the funny ones.” 

Warlock had slouched away again to take another lap around the garden before they remembered they weren’t alone.

Later, in the Bentley, Crowley had turned to look at Warlock as they sped along a winding road. “And what did you think of the cottages, Warlock? Anywhere we should cross right off? Or that you particularly liked? Anything you think we should look for even if we don’t pick that place?”

Warlock guiltily slipped their hand off the grabstrap. “Oh,” it slipped out before they could stop the question, “I- you want my opinion?”

Crowley turned around more fully, ignoring Aziraphale.

(“Crowley! Watch the road!”)

“You’re going to be living there too. And for a larger proportion of your life, most likely. Don’t look like that. You like math.”

Warlock snorted.

“Crowley! There’s a _pedestrian_!”

“And? They knew the risk when they stepped into the road,” Crowley snapped, but turned back to face front in time to miss the person crossing.

As the pair forgot them again in the bickering, Warlock was tempted to push the question out of their mind. This was the reason they’d picked these two though: sooner or later Aziraphale and Crowley would return to the question.

By five o’clock, Warlock was struggling. Crowley had pulled up in a small village nearly two hours ago and bundled Warlock into a small cottage with a skinny man and a dark-haired woman, introduced them and then ignored Warlock. A series of children near Warlock’s age had shown up and had noted Warlock with reactions ranging from disinterest to suspicion. Only the one introduced as Adam had offered Warlock a nod as he walked past. Brian had only awarded Warlock a long measuring look, while the other two rushed past to talk to Newt. But even Adam was busy talking to Crowley about the Bentley.

Warlock loitered against the wall, playing on their phone. There were only so many hours they could play the same game though, and they didn’t want to kill the phone’s battery. Then they would have to interrupt the grown-ups to ask where to plug their phone in. 

They were reduced to slouching and vengefully hoping that their parents were miserable without a child to shower attention on when they wanted one for a prop long before Newt excused himself to check on dinner. 

Dinner was better only because Warlock could concentrate on their own plate. Dinner was worse. They couldn’t remove themselves from the situation. It became clearer with every word that the others had no use for them. 

Eventually, in a lull, Warlock had ventured a comment about cricket, a topic that had always worked to ingratiate themself in other groups of British children. Here, however, Brian ducked his head and Pepper and (Jeremy?) Wensleydale scowled, while Adam gave a bright, fake smile and loudly changed the subject. (“Anyway, Anathema, I was looking at the magazines you’d sent with me last time, and it was talking about Hong Kong and the protests there and I thought…”)

Warlock curled in on themself and didn’t try again.

After dinner (and again with no real discussion of the fact – did Crowley and Aziraphale just mind-meld with all of these people? Maybe they were all Angels and Demons?) Newt led Warlock to the spare room in the cottage, a small thing hunched close under the roof. 

He smiled at Warlock. “Sorry about the size. And about dinner, we do go on a bit, don’t we? I hope you weren’t too bored. Your guardians…” 

Warlock held themself straighter against the impulse to curl away – just a hair – and shook their head. “No, I wasn’t bored.”

Newt nodded. “Good, that’s- that’s good. Let one of us know if you need anything, alright?”

A suitcase popped into the corner of the room as he spoke and Newt jumped. Warlock wished he would leave.

“I’ll be sure to do that, thank you.” They hoped they didn’t sound as out of patience as they were. 

Newt was already backing down the ladder. “And if you want to come back down, I’m sure Adam and his friends will be here for a bit yet.” 

Warlock pressed their mouth into some vaguely smile-like shape. “Thank you, I’m really quite tired.”

“Alright, well. The bathroom is this door just to the left of the ladder if you need it.” Newt’s voice got quieter as he descended and Warlock began to relax. 

They were happily engrossed in the book someone had miracle-ed in on top of their pajamas when voices began coming up through the floorboards. 

“How long do you think he’s known Aziraphale and Crowley? Don’t you think he’s a bit, well, odd?”

Anathema’s voice was smooth against Newt’s jerky delivery. “Any child who’s a ward of an Angel and a Demon is bound to be a little bit odd. _I’m_ a little bit odd, and I don’t even have that excuse.”

“That wasn’t- I just- Aren’t children supposed to enjoy playing with other children?”

They rustled around below Warlock. 

Newt’s voice changed to something more like pity. “Not that Adam and his friends were making it very easy on him. You would think they’d be more friendly. They’re friendly to you and me.” 

Warlock huffed out of bed and over to their phone. They had a playlist for this, though they hadn’t needed to use it since the day Aziraphale and Crowley had walked out onto their balcony. They couldn’t help but hear Anathema’s response, a cheery, “Well, Warlock’s not exactly friendly, is he? Maybe-” Warlock turned the music on in time to drown the rest of her sentence.

The music was just loud enough to distract them from the voices below the floor and allow them to drift off to sleep. (If Newt and Anathema were going to bed it must be an appropriate bedtime.)

They drifted to the back of the group the next day just slow enough to avoid catching Aziraphale or Crowley’s eye. Crowley was talking with Newt about some ‘Witchfinder’s Army’ and deep in discussion about some sergeant there but Warlock knew better than to assume that meant he wasn’t paying attention. 

Nanny’d had a trick where she would turn from something she appeared deeply engrossed in seconds before Warlock cut themself or fell out of a tree they weren’t supposed to be in or, on one memorable occasion, goaded boys twice their size into trying to jump them. They had eventually realized she was drawing conclusions from their current situation and not foreseeing the future, but she’d been clever enough about it that it had taken Warlock a while.

Brother Francis, while slightly more distractible, had nevertheless always had an uncanny habit of turning to address Warlock long after they thought they had been safely forgotten. 

They were so busy watching their guardians that they’d forgotten about the other people on this hike. (It was good that Newt had given them the word. He’d probably gotten it from Aziraphale and Crowley themselves. It was better to have a word than to want to call them parents and worry about being wrong. Guardians.) 

They didn’t even understand why the whole company had stood up and set off to hike at an apparently invisible signal not long after they finished breakfast. They were halfway worked up into a proper sulk (Crowley and Aziraphale would notice that! Some small part of their brain was terrified to find out that demanding attention would result in being returned to the States and the Dowlings, and the rest of their brain announced that this was a Proper Reason to sulk and test it out before they got comfortable.) (If they were going to be kicked out for being inconvenient, better to know sooner than later.) (If they were going to be sent away for being childish couldn’t they put that off as long as possible?)

“Oi, Warlock, right?”

They jumped. The girl was looking right at them. “I- Yes. Pepper, is it?”

She nodded. Warlock glanced for her friends, but the three of them were a little ways ahead, Adam shadowing Aziraphale now and the other two ranging ahead in what seemed halfway between a shoving match and a game of tag. Warlock was glad to see that Adam had his little dog close at his heels. (They definitely weren’t a dog person.) Newt and Anathema were talking to Crowley, arms loosely ‘round each other’s waists.

“So how long have you known them? Crowley and Aziraphale?” Pepper darted a glance at Warlock.

“Oh.” Warlock hesitated, trying to calculate what the correct answer was. There was no way of knowing. They lifted their chin. “They raised me.”

Pepper tripped. Warlock reached a hand out to catch her, but she righted herself and stared ahead fixedly. 

“They _raised you_?” Pepper shook her head.

Relaxing now that it seemed their answer had been alright, Warlock ventured a question of their own. “How long have you known them?”

Pepper turned to watch them as she answered. “Couple of weeks.”

Warlock tried to hide the fact that they were making connections. (Surely it was better to play like they didn’t know anything.) 

Pepper’s eyes narrowed. “I- Why would they raise you?”

Warlock couldn’t hide their flinch, but they tilted their chin up and tried to play it off anyway. “Well my parents weren’t about to take care of a baby, now were they?” They let their lip curl. “Aziraphale and Crowley were _hired_ to take care of me.” They rolled their eyes and left off the ‘Obviously’ that they wanted to add. Substituted a “Good riddance to _them_ ” that in retrospect couldn’t have been any better. At least their tone had probably made it clear they meant their parents? They would never spit out the descriptor for Aziraphale and Crowley like it was a poor substitute for a bad word.

Pepper bit her lip. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I meant. I just meant- well I’ve only known Crowley and Aziraphale a couple of weeks, but they’d be odd parents, wouldn’t they? Adam says that they’re sort of- flighty, I guess.”

Of course it was Adam. Warlock pulled a face. “He was the antichrist in the end, was he?” There must have been some sort of apocalypse that had left the world nearly unchanged. Nothing else made sense. 

It was Pepper’s turn to flinch now. “Warlock!”

“What?” 

“You can’t just _say_ that!”

Warlock balled their hands into fists in their pockets. “Well feel free to let me know what I _am_ allowed to say any time you like. In the meantime, don’t you have friends to go run and play with?” The only thing keeping their voice from raising was the certain knowledge that Aziraphale and Crowley would both recognize all the hurt fury in their voice if they could hear.

Pepper glanced ahead but didn’t leave. “I- Warlock, that wasn’t- It wasn’t _fun_ , OK?” She ducked her head. “We thought Brian was going to have to knock Adam out with a _cricket bat_.”

Warlock interrupted her before she could push herself to explain something Warlock already knew in their bones. (At least that explained the others’ reaction to the topic of cricket.) “Of course it wasn’t. It’s the end of the world.” They kept their voice steady only from the years of practice pretending they could be everything Aziraphale and Crowley wanted them to be. Every image from the Book of Revelations that had burned itself into the back of their eyelids in spite of themself rolled through their head. 

“There followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth.” Warlock scuffed a foot through the leaves as they walked. “A third of the day was without light, and also a third of the night.” They swallowed. “During those days people will seek death but they will not find it; they will long to die, but death will elude them.” They balled their hands into fists in their pockets. “We did two different translations.”

Pepper frowned. “Sorry, two different translations of what? I mean, I guess the storm meant that it was pretty dark, but not- not without light. There was no fire and blood.”

Warlock raised a shoulder and did their best to look nonchalant. “Two different translations of the Bible. The Book of Revelations. Crowley favored the New International Version, since I couldn’t read the Latin at six. That was when we started.” 

They watched Pepper open her mouth to ask if they could read Latin now and then decide she didn’t want to know.

“Aziraphale preferred the King James, but then, he would, wouldn’t he?” 

Warlock could remember the day they’d learned that the King James version was considered to be more interested in poetry than in a faithful translation. Incidentally, it had also been the day they had learned about homophobia and about the small-minded excuses some people used to explain why they didn’t like poetry. (Nanny’s explanation, that those people were simply too lazy to be willing to work to find their reward, sounded more sensible to Warlock.) Brother Francis loved poetry.

Now, Warlock took a moment to marvel at an angel who preferred literary value to faithful translation when it came to the Bible. 

Pepper offered them a flickering smile, then paused. “Wait, did they think that _you_ were the antichrist?”

Warlock shrugged, too tired of everything to object to her tone. “So they tell me.” They could hear the mulishness in their voice. 

Pepper pulled a face at herself again. “But this is brilliant. When did they realize they had the wrong boy?”

“I didn’t ask.” Warlock took a breath and added, “I was just happy to find out that I wasn’t going to disappoint the- either of them. Both. They- I couldn’t even make- I… just wasn’t ever going to be the antichrist they’d raised me to be.” They hunched their shoulders and waited.

Pepper leaned and grabbed a chestnut and lobbed it square on Brian’s shoulder blade. The boy stopped and turned with a scowl, but Pepper was already talking over him. 

“So Warlock’s been holding out on us. Did you know he was raised as the antichrist?”

Warlock felt their stomach unclench slowly. 

Adam turned and offered them the ghost of a smile. 

They took a breath and returned it.

When Aziraphale settled himself in at his desk late that afternoon and Warlock turned to slip up to their room, instead of retreating to his car and his flat or lounging onto the couch with a sigh and a bottle of wine, Crowley stood and followed Warlock. They slouched down on the bed and waited. Crowley lounged against the side of the door for a long moment before speaking. 

“So I- Uh- It looked like you were getting along with Adam and Pepper and them this morning.”

“The Them,” Warlock corrected absently. They could feel their nerves humming, although Nanny had only ever initiated these interviews to check on Warlock. She never pulled her punches.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t consider how cliquey they might be, but I’m glad you got in.” He paused long enough to tell Warlock that whatever he said next was the conversation he actually wanted to have. “You called us your guardians, when we were saying goodbye.” And there it was. 

Warlock dug their fingernails into their palms and offered a half-shrug. “Well I’ve got to call you something.”

If they hadn’t bowed their head to hide their face behind a curtain of hair they’d have seen Crowley move. Instead he just appeared kneeling in front of them. 

“Whatever you want to call us is fine,” he told them in his most comforting Nanny voice, the one she had used when Warlock’s father was at his most hurtfully dismissive. “If- Look, I know all about bad relationships with parents.”

Warlock felt the hurt in their chest clench tighter at that. “What, 16,000 years of observation makes you an expert in the first-person experience?” They were good at numbers, but somehow the exaggeration helped, was part of the lashing out. A grim little announcement that Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s words weren’t worth holding onto.

Crowley sighed. “Warlock, love, what sort of Mummy issues do you think come from being cast out of your home into literal actual hell.” He didn’t seem to expect a response. 

Warlock froze.

Crowley reached out and gently took one of Warlock’s fists into each of his hands. Softly uncurled them, finger by finger, and just as she had when Warlock was little, rubbed his index finger across the red crescents their fingernails left so that they disappeared. 

“Warlock, love.” Crowley swallowed, “I wanted to make sure that you had a choice.” He slipped off his sunglasses (Warlock had only seen Nanny without her sunglasses once, but somehow the eyes were comforting instead of surprising) and held Warlock’s gaze. “We will always be there for you. We are always proud of you. I’ll try to be better about checking in on you,” he reached and wiped away a tear that had escaped to wander down Warlock’s cheek, “But you are always welcome to interrupt, do you understand me? I don’t care what else is going on, or who Aziraphale and I are talking to. I don’t care if I’ve been asleep for three months. Always, understand? That’s what I’m here for.”

Warlock offered a shaky smile. “To… To be better than god?” Lowercase, even in their mind, because anyone who had thrown out Crowley didn’t deserve a capital letter.

A complicated look passed over Crowley’s face before he snorted and chucked under Warlock’s chin. “Cheeky boy.”

Warlock reached out and pulled Crowley close, lay their head on his shoulder, and sighed. 

After everything, it looked something like this: a child, nearly twelve, running through Crowley’s garden and dodging to avoid the water from the hosepipe aimed at them. The same kid, running with the Them on weekends to R. P. Tyler’s impotent fury. Nights spent curled up in their attic bedroom doing homework and mornings learning to make crepes under Aziraphale’s unexpectedly critical tutelage. Then one afternoon, as Crowley sprawled the length of the couch in both Warlock and Aziraphale’s space, telling the pair their gender and pronouns, one hand resting loosely on Crowley’s ankle where it lay, just because it was close. The way that both of them nodded. The books Aziraphale left by their bed at some point that afternoon and the hug Crowley wrapped ‘round them when he finally stood up.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out this awesome [ art by Jules-al-c](https://jules-al-c.tumblr.com/post/623668113348657152/this-is-my-good-omens-minibang-piece-for) for the Mini Bang!!!


End file.
